Bump 'N Grind
by NuclearNik
Summary: Hermione encounters a bump on the path to her weekend of rest and relaxation.
1. Prologue

Written for the lovely otterlyardent. Her birthday was in July (and we're halfway through September, I know) but what started out as a little one-shot based on a trope she likes ran away from me. This will be a short story with a few parts. I hope you enjoy it, my friend. Thanks to QuinTalon for being a fantastic cheerleader.

* * *

Hermione wasn't sure of the exact moment when she had changed. When she had become someone different than the girl she'd been in her youth. Was it during the war, when everything was a battlefield and living was solely about _surviving_?

Perhaps it was after, when her world had been upside down for years, when she'd been in hiding simply because of who she was, and then suddenly she was being lauded as a war heroine with her face plastered across the wizarding world and no moment to herself.

Probably, it was when she'd woken up one morning, looked around at her life—at her husband sleeping in their bed, the quidditch gear and Auror robes that he could never quite seem to put away tossed on the armchair and at the foot of the bed—and felt nothing but apathy.

No fondness, no pang of longing in her chest, just _emptiness_.

It was a bit like she was living someone else's life. As if she were stuck in a body that wasn't really hers, purely going through the motions every day.

When Ron kissed her, when he cupped her face and tangled his fingers in her hair, she felt as though she saw it all from above, numb to the sensations.

At first, she thought she had dated Ron—then married Ron—because he was the one for her, because she loved him and he loved her, and because they just fit together, despite their differences. They'd had the kind of closeness you form with someone when you're fighting through your childhood to survive that makes romance a natural progression. When you're forced to rely on each other so completely, you start thinking you must be a good match.

The farther along she got in the life she had found herself in, the more she started to realize that perhaps she was there because she thought it was the right thing to do, the natural next step. Because his family wanted them to be together, and because Ron cared for her. He was a good man who he was there, right in front of her. Who knew if and when she would find someone else that was there, right in front of her?

They'd married young. Ron's mother had lit a fire under them, continually pressuring them to "Hurry up and get married, already!" All while hiding behind a smile and motherly concern.

Ron had never been one to stand up to his mother, so instead, he let her push them into a ridiculous wedding they didn't want to have.

That had been five years ago.

Three months ago they'd gotten in a massive fight, the most significant rift they'd ever had. Ron had stayed at Grimmauld Place for several weeks.

Absence was meant to make the heart grow fonder, supposedly, but all it had done for Hermione was help her to see their relationship for what it was—routine and obligation.

They'd separated a week later.

Marriage bonds steeped in magic were not easily dissolved. It took time and ridiculous amounts of paperwork and signatures to bring a marriage to an end. Hermione and Ron had known that it was over; there was nothing left to save. They agreed to separate and lead their own lives freely, fulfilling whatever obligations they still had as a couple with polite indifference. Thank Merlin they hadn't had kids yet. Hermione wasn't sure that she'd have been able to find the strength to leave a loveless marriage if there had been children in the mix.

For all intents and purposes, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger-Weasley were divorced, though the papers hadn't gone through yet.

They sublet their shared flat to one of Ron's cousins. Hermione found a place in London, and Ron moved in with Ginny and Harry, staying in a spare bedroom until he found a place of his own.

Hermione, for the first time in a very long time, had no one to take care of but herself. No one else to look after or protect.

She didn't know who she was apart from Harry and Ron. Since they were children, her whole world began and ended with them—getting them out of sticky situations, making sure they finished their homework, _keeping them alive_—and without them, she felt unmoored.

Lost, yes, but deep in her heart, she felt a sense of rightness.

It was finally time to live her life for herself.


	2. I don't see nothing wrong

At the end of a very long day—and an even longer week—Hermione hurried down the Ministry corridor, headed for the fireplaces. The legislation she'd been working towards for weeks had finally had its last hearing today, passing with a positive outcome. The workweek was finally over. A headache was throbbing at her temples, she was too hot in her formal robes, and all she wanted to do was get home and take a bubble bath.

So occupied was she with trying to shove paperwork into her bag neatly—there was always reading she could do at home—that Hermione didn't notice someone coming around the corner just in front of her.

She bounced off a warm chest and stumbled back, and the loose sheets of parchment she'd been holding fluttered to the floor around her. Just when she'd steadied herself, a piece of parchment caught under her heel. She flew backwards, head cracking against the marble wall.

"Granger?"

A little woozy from the sudden and intense collision, Hermione struggled to her knees and tried to gather up her papers, though the world had gone blurry.

Shiny black shoes entered her line of vision, and she lifted her head to find Draco Malfoy crouching beside her.

He was very close, and he smelled good—like expensive cologne and sunshine.

Hermione began to wonder if she'd hit her head harder than she'd initially figured because the thoughts currently floating through her mind surely couldn't be anything but the result of a concussion, right?

"Granger, hold still just a minute."

A hand covered both of hers, stilling her frantic movements. Before she could voice her irritation with the hand, yet another hand cupped the back of her head, fingers pressing gently against her skull, searching for something. What could they possibly be looking to find? It's not as if she kept anything hidden back there, though sometimes when she couldn't find Crookshanks, she wondered if he'd possibly gotten lost in the thicket growing from her head.

"Okay, that's it. Let's get you to a healer."

* * *

Draco's first instinct was to get to the Apparition point—the quickest and most efficient route—but he wasn't sure of the extent of her injury and didn't want to risk making it worse by forcing her to Apparate.

The Floo would have to do.

Carefully arranging her so that her head rested on his shoulder without flopping around, he slid his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. Making sure she was secure, he strode to the fireplaces as quickly as he could while keeping her from being jostled too much.

It was late in the day, and the usually bustling Ministry foyer was empty.

Hermione was seemingly coming in and out of coherence, because when he said, "Accio Floo powder," she told him very matter of factly that Floo powder cannot be summoned, and then her head lolled back, and she was silent.

He shuffled awkwardly up to the mantle, balancing the witch in his arms and reaching for the jar of Floo powder, muttering expletives throughout the whole affair. He was able to grasp just enough with the tips of his fingers to throw into the fireplace.

He yelled their destination and stepped into the Floo.

Hermione felt as if she were wrapped in a soft blanket of sunshine. She was toasty warm and comfortable. Unfortunately, when she tried to open her eyes, that same sunshine started doing battle with her retinas, and she couldn't see past the bright light currently shooting pain through her head.

Where was she? Had she fed Crookshanks? Oh no, poor Crookshanks!

"Crooks?"

"For Merlin's sake, I'm not stealing from you, Granger," a voice said from somewhere off to her left, disrupting her quiet cocoon of comfort.

She didn't recognize the voice. No matter, she needed to take care of Crookshanks.

"No, Crookshanks. My cat. Where's Crookshanks?"

"You're in the hospital. You split your head open."

Hermione forced her eyelids to open with great effort, blinking against the brightness of the room.

"What? How is that possible? I can't be in the hospital! I have too many things to do and—"

"Miss Granger-Weasley." Another voice this time, a bit farther away than the other. It was soothing and modulated.

She ignored it.

"—Crookshanks needs me to feed him—"

As she rambled, Hermione fought through the throbbing pain overwhelming her.

The voice to her left mumbled something that sounded explicit, and suddenly the room was blessedly dark. Hermione sighed in relief.

"Do I have to do your job for you? She has a fucking head injury, and you put her in the brightest room in the whole damn place."

"Mr. Malfoy, I assure you she's in good hands—"

The tense conversation happening around her turned fuzzy at the edges, and she found herself wondering who the first voice was and why they had brought her here.

_Mr. Malfoy? Must be Draco. Not quite enough holier-than-thou laced through the voice to be Lucius. _

Hermione snorted at the thought. Apparently, head injuries brought out her inner comedian.

"Excuse me?" she said, quietly to avoid further aggravating her headache. The arguing voices continued without pause as if she hadn't even spoken.

Finally succeeding in opening her eyes, she took in her surroundings through the dim light coming through the crack in the door.

She was lying on a bed in a small room. There was a chair to her left that must have previously been occupied by Malfoy and abandoned when he stood to argue with the other wizard in the room, clearly the healer.

With a loud clearing of her throat, Hermione tried again to get their attention. "Gentlemen?" she said as loudly as she could, employing the firm tone she used at depositions.

The room fell quiet, with both men _finally _looking in her direction.

"May I inquire as to why I am here and when I may be released?"

The healer looked sideways at Malfoy before taking a step back as if he didn't want to be within wand distance in case the unpredictable man decided to strike.

"As I was saying, you have a concussion, Mrs. Granger-Weasley—"

With what she hoped was a kind smile, Hermione interrupted the healer's words. "It's Ms. Granger now, actually."

Looking a bit confused—an emotion she didn't blame him for as the news of her split with Ron had been kept pretty tightly under wraps—the healer said, "Oh, uh, I see. Of course, Ms. Granger." He cleared his throat. "We ran a diagnostic test and found that you have a moderately severe concussion. As long as you take care to let yourself heal and avoid reinjury, it shouldn't have any long-term effects."

Though she didn't wish for a concussion, she was just the tiniest bit relieved by the news. It meant that her bizarre thoughts about Malfoy's aroma were simply a result of trauma to the head, nothing more.

_Thank Circe._

"As such, I strongly recommend that someone stays with you for the next twenty-four hours to watch for any worsening symptoms."

"Yes, of course. I'll find someone," Hermione said, bold as brass and knowing full well that she would not find someone. She was perfectly fine, and if they were going to discharge her already, then she must be alright.

She had just gotten a place of her own, for goodness sake. She would not spend her precious few days off inviting someone into her private space and forcing them to care for her when she could care for herself just fine.

Besides, Ginny and Harry were out of town, and Ron, and Bill and his family were visiting Charlie in Romania. Her relationship with her former in-laws was shaky at best, so there was no chance she'd go to them for help.

She'd be fine.

"I'm afraid I can't release you without someone to escort you home. Is there someone we can contact to come collect you?

* * *

"I'll stay with her."

As the words left his mouth, Draco wondered what had come over him.

Volunteering to babysit Granger, of all people, on the one weekend he finally had free in months? He must be going barmy. Maybe he hit his head too?

Immediately the witch lying rather helplessly on a hospital cot tried to protest, saying she was fine and didn't need assistance, thank you very much, and that she appreciated the help from the healer—"And you, Malfoy, for bringing me here"—but she could take it from there.

Draco watched with a blank expression as she tried rather valiantly to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed, only to become tangled in the blankets. When she attempted to dislodge herself, she moved too fast and cried out, raising a hand to her bandaged temple.

The look of surprise on her face said that she perhaps realized that she was not quite in as good of shape as she'd thought.

Draco rolled his eyes. _Always the stubborn fucking Gryffindor._

The little idiot had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.

As he thought this, Draco felt a wave of protectiveness wash over him that was most unwelcome.

She could take care of herself. He certainly wasn't obligated to help.

Except, it wasn't obligation he was feeling, not entirely.

Was it concern?

That didn't make sense.

"Ms. Granger-Weasley—"

"It's Granger!" Draco chuckled under his breath at her outburst. She was occupied with extricating herself from the hospital bed but looked up at the incompetent healer upon what must have been a realization that she had just shouted at the man.

"Healer…" The riled up witch paused to peer at his name tag, "Matthews, please call me Hermione."

The healer didn't speak for a split second, just long enough for his gaze to flick skyward as if he were praying for patience. "Ms. Gra—Hermione, please cease your flailing. You'll hurt yourself. If you refuse to leave with this young man, you'll have to find someone else."

Draco found it curious that she was insisting on being called by her maiden name. Despite his work taking him around the world, he kept up with the who's who of the British wizarding world. Everyone and their grandmother knew that Weasley and Granger had gotten together right after the war, so what had happened?

Were they on rocky ground, perhaps?

_I wouldn't be surprised. A weak bloke like Weasley surely couldn't keep up with someone of her calibre._

Someone of her calibre? Draco shook his head to rid himself of such ridiculous thoughts. This was Granger he was thinking about. Know-it-all extraordinaire. Pain in the arse.

Still, something was urging him to help her. And he _did _have the weekend free.

Granger was now arguing with the healer over his attempt to strong-arm her into compliance and was still unable to produce a name of someone who could pick her up.

"Give it up, Granger. Let someone help you, for once," he said, valiantly trying to keep his eyes from rolling and failing.

Louder this time and looking right at the healer, Draco said again, "I'll stay with her. Do you have a list of symptoms I need to watch for?"

The healer nodded, apparently satisfied with Draco's control over the situation, and went to retrieve a piece of parchment on which to write instructions.

"That's not your decision to make, Malfoy!" Irate and spitting venom, Hermione started fiddling with the blankets once again.

Draco walked to her bedside and laid a hand on the bed, just shy of her knee, to stop her squirming. "Quit fucking moving, Granger. You're hurt, and you're just going to have to suck it up because you're not leaving this room alone."

She finally, blessedly stilled but glared at him with fire in her eyes, going on a tirade about _the_ _absolutely archaic and high handed behaviour that's just accepted in the wizarding world_ and h_ow dare he_ and _give her back her wand right this minute!_

Healer whatever-his-name-was returned with a set of written instructions for Draco to follow whilst keeping an eye on Granger.

* * *

A/N: S&R Movement: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW)


	3. My mind's tellin' me no

The blasted hospital staff had let Malfoy stroll out of there with an angry woman in his arms as if that were a perfectly acceptable occurrence. No matter. Hermione decided she would play nice until they got to her flat, where she would once again get ahold of her wand and castrate the brute carrying her away.

Okay, maybe brute was a strong word. Malfoy had picked her up gently, he was taking care not to jostle her too much, and he hadn't done anything to hurt her—yet—but that was probably because he was waiting for them to be alone at which point he would torment her with painful hexes while listing all the ways he was better than her.

Perhaps the bump to the head had jump-started her imagination. It was rather unlikely that Draco Malfoy had been somehow lying in wait at the ministry for the exact moment she got out of the delayed hearing just to run into her, ensure she was injured, then take her to the hospital all so he could get away with some evil plan to torture her.

She'd seen the articles. She knew Malfoy wasn't exactly the person he'd been before the war but were any of them? According to the papers, he'd helped rebuild Hogwarts, as many of them had, using a portion of the ridiculous wealth he'd inherited when his father was again imprisoned.

She remembered the headlines.

_Disgraced Death Eater Reforms?_

He'd turned his life around, or so The Prophet reported, and kept his nose clean, starting a consulting firm and travelling the world for business. He was rarely seen in Britain anymore, and the few times he was, you could bet your last galleon that Rita Skeeter would jump on that exclusive immediately.

They reached the street, and the caveman holding her hostage asked, "Which way?" She refused to speak to him, instead pointing in the general direction of her flat just a few blocks away.

She'd chosen the building for its positioning in the epicentre of wizarding London, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from work.

Now she wished she had chosen somewhere far away, with many flights of stairs, anything that would make things more difficult for Malfoy.

Her flat was one floor up, and when they arrived, the pompous git finally gave her back her wand, bracing her against the door while he pulled it out of his pocket.

She disabled the wards and unlocked the door, waiting for him to put her down and allow her feet to touch the ground before spinning and moving to pin him against the wall with her wand to his throat.

Except, as she spun around the world turned sideways, and her headache came rushing back.

In two seconds flat, everything went dark.

* * *

Swearing, Draco rushed to catch Hermione before she fell to the floor.

She didn't protest this time when he carefully lifted her, looking around for somewhere to place her and finally settling on the sofa.

When he'd gotten her situated, propping her head up with a pillow, he looked around for something to cover her with. Over by the fireplace there was an upholstered chair with a colourful knitted blanket draped over it.

Ugly as a hag, but functional enough.

That same feeling of care and concern he'd felt at the hospital filled Draco's chest as he stood over the sofa. He lay the blanket over Granger, tucking the end under her feet so they wouldn't get cold.

Why he was feeling this way towards Hermione Granger, of all people, was beyond him.

In her unconscious state, she was quiet and still, a gift from the gods. Perhaps he was just relieved that she wasn't arguing with him. Yes, that's undoubtedly what the ache behind his breastbone meant.

He stood awkwardly next to the sofa, not sure what to do next. He supposed that after all that had happened that day, what he really needed was a cup of tea.

The kitchen was tucked away off of the sitting room. Like the rest of the flat Draco had seen so far, it had large windows to allow the sunlight in or show off the lights of the city at night.

Locating the kettle and finding a mug in the cupboard, Draco flicked his wand to set the tea to steeping.

While waiting on his tea, he wandered over to the massive bookcase fully covering one wall of the flat, perusing the shelves.

When the tea was ready, he carried his cup and chosen book over to the sitting chair. Before he could get even halfway there, he heard the sound of claws on wood flooring and quicker than he could blink, there was an orange blur of fur tangling around his feet and tripping him. As the tea went flying, the beast responsible for the mess let out an angry meow as if it were affronted by the flying liquid.

Thankfully, the hot splatter missed the essential bits of Draco and the cat, though the mug flew out of his hand to shatter on the floor. At the sound, the lump on the couch stirred but didn't wake up.

Draco started to wave his wand to clean up the mess, but the moronic feline decided it would be a good idea to traipse all over the broken porcelain. He scooped the cat up with one arm and used to other to vanish the shards. Unfortunately, the cat did not like that one bit and began to scratch and hiss.

Draco hated cats.

They smelled, left their hair everywhere, and had such an attitude.

He remembered this particular creature from the few times he'd seen it traipsing around the castle, chasing rats, mice, and anything else it could get its paws on. It was still just as strikingly homely, with its squished face and too-big eyes.

And currently, it was so thorough in its bid for escape that it ripped Draco's dress shirt and left a gash down his bicep.

"Fuck!"

With a sweep of his wand, he finished clearing the broken teacup from the floor and promptly dropped the cat. It landed on its feet, hissing up at him one more time before skulking away into the depths of the flat.

He sat down in the wingback chair next to the hearth to clean and heal the wound inflicted by the devil cat. To get a proper look at his arm, he'd have to remove his shirt. He worked on the row of buttons, unfastening the shirt and pulling it off his shoulders with a groan.

The frenzied caterwauling the cat had engaged in earlier didn't serve to wake the sleeping witch on the sofa, but Draco's quiet exclamation of pain somehow did.

Big, brown eyes blinked at him over the blanket tucked up to her chin.

Voice still a little groggy from sleep, she asked, "What happened?"

"Your pet from hell made me drop a teacup, then refused to cooperate when I tried to clean up the mess and keep it from getting hurt, attacking me instead. It really knows how to show gratitude."

"He's a cat, Malfoy. He doesn't know what your intentions are. He just has instinct. You probably scared him."

"Scared him? I saved him!"

Those big, brown eyes rolled up at the ceiling before she wiggled a bit to sit up higher on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her and gesturing for him to sit beside her.

Unsure of what she was going to do, Draco cautiously made his way to the sofa, shirt forgotten on the chair.

When he was seated, she looked him over, something warm flashing in her eyes and utterly throwing him off before her expression changed to brisk and efficient.

She'd had her wand clutched in her hand when she'd fallen, and when Draco had picked her up, he'd set it next to her on the sofa.

Now, she rummaged around in the cushions for it, a little sound of victory escaping her when she found it. It made Draco wonder what other sounds he could get her to make in a different setting.

_What?_

He tried to mentally shrug off his odd and sudden sexual attraction to swotty Granger, instead focusing on what she was now doing.

She'd sat up a little and whispered a charm to sterilize the wound before mending it. Draco's flesh sealed back together, and Granger summoned a jar of Dittany, opening it and carefully spreading it over the scar on his arm.

When her skin touched his, a hum spread through him, giving him a charged feeling like the air during an electrical storm. It was warm and pleasant and soothing, as if his magic was purring in response to hers.

Her eyes flicked up at his face for the briefest of seconds at the moment they touched before returning to the task at hand. Draco did his best to ignore the strange feeling as she applied the salve.

It took a bit more time than Dittany application on a small wound would typically warrant.

He entertained the thought that perhaps she was doing it on purpose, lingering longer than necessary because she liked touching him.

Absurd.

Of course not. Prim and proper Hermione Granger wouldn't find pleasure in touching the big bad death eater, the schoolyard bully that had tormented her in their childhood, right? Because that would be completely mad.

When she had finished, she brushed her fingers over his skin one more time and quietly said, "There. All done."

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was suddenly too dry. He swallowed roughly, saying, "Thank you. Do you, uh, need something? I mean, can I get you anything?"

Amusement touched her features at his uncharacteristic stuttering before telling him there was a bag of frozen peas in the icebox, and would he please grab them?

He grabbed his shirt and shrugged it back on, then did as she asked, unsure why she required cold vegetables.

When he'd retrieved the peas and handed them to her, she leaned back into the cushions and pressed the crinkly bag to her temple, where a bandage still rested.

"Is that some kind of Muggle tradition?" he asked, gesturing to the peas.

"What? Oh, it's just ice. My mum always kept a bag of frozen peas for when I'd come home from the neighbour's house with bruises and scrapes from roller skating all day."

Completely confused now, Draco repeated what she'd said. "Roller what?"

"Skating."

"Like sliding around on ice?"

"No, they're like, um… Oh! They're like shoes with tiny wheels, and you can glide around on them. I wasn't very good at it. I fell a lot."

"Interesting." Draco's brain conjured an image of a tiny Granger wobbling around on wheeled shoes like a newborn duck. He really didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he found the idea adorable.

Having finished his errand, Draco sat back down in the chair by the fireplace and fiddled with his hands. He hated being fidgety, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't sure what else to do, and he was feeling slightly awkward now in Granger's home, caring for her.

"What book were you reading?"

Draco looked up from his hands. "Hmm?"

"The book there on the floor. I assume you were planning to read it."

"Oh. Yes, uh, Macbeth. Looked interesting."

"Good choice. It was written by a famous playwright, William Shakespeare. You've probably heard of him. We studied his body of work in fourth-year Muggle Studies."

"The name sounds vaguely familiar. To be honest, I tried my best to tune out during that class. It bored me."

"Well, if you had paid closer attention, you may have found that there are many interesting things we can learn from Muggles."

Draco found that hard to believe. "Such as?"

"Electricity for one. The science of it is fascinating. It's almost like they've harnassed magic for themselves, found a way to channel it and use it to their advantage."

"But don't you think it's a bit sad how clueless they are to the magical world? Magic could help them with so many things, if only they were lucky enough to have been given the gift of it."

"You have a point, but I see it differently. If you think about it, Muggles have had to work far harder to accomplish things as a society. They've had to find workarounds to so many problems or obstacles. When magic isn't even an option, you're forced to get clever, be resourceful. I think Muggle society is in some ways—not all, but many—farther along than the wizarding world. They're forward thinkers, Muggles. Well, some of them. The choices made by some government officials make me doubt their wit and progressive thinking, to be frank."

"I'm sorry, _what? _You want me to call you Frank?"

The laugh that came out of the witch on the sofa sounded like music—so carefree and full of mirth that it made him want to grin. Draco wanted to hear it again.

He decided he liked seeing Granger happy. In school, she'd been continuously stressed over an assignment or worried about her dunderheaded friends. Draco couldn't recall a single moment where remembered seeing her enjoy herself.

Maybe in the fourth year at the Yule Ball. She'd looked pretty enough, he supposed. At thirteen he was still so caught up in his family's ideals that he hadn't even given her a second thought. He'd gone with Pansy, who looked lovely but was an atrocious dancer. Honestly, for a pure-blood she was terribly uncouth at times.

"No, it's just a phrase. Like 'To be honest.'" Hermione was still chuckling as she explained.

"Why not just say that then?"

"I don't know—to add some colour to an everyday phrase, I guess. Enough questions. You're giving me a headache."

"You gave yourself a headache, _Your Grace._"

"Har har. Hush and hand me that remote."

* * *

Hermione reached for another chocolate biscuit as the next episode of _Strictly Come Dancing _began. She wasn't always able to catch them when they aired, so she taped them for when she had time. It was perfect for her forced rest period.

At first, she had ignored the interloper in her sitting room, but as the show played, he got curious and started asking questions.

"If it's cast directly onto your fancy telly boxes, then why is there a live audience? Surely they could have done with just one or the other. Seems a bit overkill to me."

And then, a few minutes later, "He's a rugby player? Oh, he's going to do horribly. Can you imagine Marcus Flint coming off the pitch, stepping into dance shoes, and keeping time to a beat? Because I certainly can, and the image is hilarious."

Honestly, the man was talking far more than she would have preferred. She just wanted to watch her show in peace. On episode three, he'd even stolen one of her biscuits! He'd whipped his wand out and floated it over to himself before Hermione even realized it was missing. The nerve.

On episode four, he'd started to form opinions on the whole thing, from the judges to the contestants to the choice of music.

"I like that one. He tells it like it is. What's his name again?"

"Len."

"Right, Len. Good bloke, that Len."

When the fourth pair of the night performed, Malfoy made some disparaging remarks about the female partner's outfit.

"She's not even a contestant, Malfoy. She's one of the professionals."

"She's a tart, that's what she is. Every episode she comes out in something more revealing than the last!"

"It's a dance show, you misogynistic idiot. They're costumes. I highly doubt she'd just wear that out on the street, but even if she did, that's totally up to her and has no relation—at all—to her character."

That worked to shut him up, for a time, and he refrained from assuming the sexual proclivities of anyone else on the show.

"What's that one called, again?"

"The Paso Doble."

"I think it's my favourite."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course it is. It's all melodramatic and broody. I wonder, who does that remind you of?"

* * *

Draco ignored her snarky comment and watched the dancers moving on the screen. It really was a magnificent performance.

When the episode they were watching finally finished, Draco's stomach made a noise that Granger was polite enough to ignore.

"It's been hours, don't you have anything to eat around here?"

"Not really. I loathe cooking, but we could get takeaway. There's a fantastic curry place nearby."

"What's that?"

"You've never had curry before? I would have thought with all the travelling your family did, you would have tried all kinds of different cuisine."

"Mostly we went to France and occasionally the Alps to visit my mother's cousins. My father didn't like to travel."

His father didn't like anything, really. He'd been a man hard to please, though that never kept Draco from trying. His whole life, all he'd wanted was to make his father proud.

When he'd finally realized that was an unattainable dream, life got easier. Draco started living to make himself proud.

His mother had always supported him. She had said once that it didn't matter what Draco did with his life—he could become a court jester or a botanist for all she cared. She'd love him just the same.

Granger must have sensed the decline in his mood because she deftly changed the subject to food once more. She pointed her wand toward the kitchen counter. A drawer opened, and out came a piece of paper, floating through the air to land in her hand.

"Here are our options." She began reading off the menu, stopping here and there to explain when he didn't recognize something.

As she called in their order, Draco excused himself to the loo, warily eyeing the demon cat where it sat by the window and giving it a wide berth.

He wasn't sure how long it took food to be delivered the old-fashioned way, but he hoped it was fast. He was starving.


End file.
